


The Devil You Know

by ShortSkirtLongJacket



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:20:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortSkirtLongJacket/pseuds/ShortSkirtLongJacket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa finds refuge as the waitress Alayne in an off-road diner until her past catches up to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil You Know

The tinny peal of the bell signaled his arrival. The auburn girl, while punching out totals on a register that had seen better days, extended a greeting without looking up. "Hi, there! Go ahead and have a seat and I'll be with you in just a minute."  
  
The diner could be described as quaint, an obvious holdover from decades past when family roadtrips were all but required. Cheap plastic booths lined the windows and a row of stools paralleled a long counter, all with seats in that atrocious orange long past its heyday. He made his way through the clearing room, taking a seat at a booth whose once off-white tabletop had yellowed with age. Slight frown creased the corner of his mouth at the color scheme; between the hues and terrible fluorescent lighting, the place gave off a wholly jaundiced appearance.  
  
With a smile that could only be described as familiar, she thanked a man sitting at the bar. He was heavyset with the days-old facial hair becoming a citizen of this town – if it could be called that. He wore a tattered ball cap and flannel shirt paired with denim, all in various states of disintegration and stained in dark splotches that were probably motor oil. Baelish glanced around, taking note of the other patrons all adorned in a similar vein. He, however, stood out in stark contrast with a business shirt so dark one only saw it was blue compared to his black slacks and shining leather shoes. How anyone could resign themselves to such inelegance would always be beyond him.  
  
The waitress snatched up a menu, striding over, long tresses free of restraint. Certainly some kind of health code violation - not that anyone likely cared here. "Sorry for the wait, the other girl called out so it's just me. Can I get you something to drink while you're looking?" she explained, setting the laminated paper down. Gray-green made their way slowly to her face, glancing past ratty denim and faded black t-shirt affixed with a plastic name tag labeled Alayne in large block letters. He waited for recognition and, finding none, requested a plain black coffee. Evidently he wasn't as memorable as he imagined.  
  
Returning shortly, manicured hands moved the untouched menu to gingerly set down the scalding cup.  "Do you need a minute or are you ready?" She asked cheerfully.  
"You seem like you have good taste,” he smiled. “How about you choose? Surprise me.”  
  
She nodded slowly, the small hum of deliberation emanating through pursed lips. "Do you like sandwiches?"

Another smile and nod of approval. “Sounds great.”

  
Baelish watched her surreptitiously, barely sipping the rotgut that passed for coffee in this godforsaken corner of the earth. She played her role well; with her second-hand clothes, she fit in nicely with the third-rate town – but what else could one expect from the girl? Though they'd met only briefly, her intelligence struck him as painfully obvious, though her skills at deception left so much to be desired. And maintaining the signature Tully pigment simply wouldn't do.

  
The diner continued to clear, eventually leaving a pair of cackling, loud middle-aged women who drowned out  the low din from the half dozen others in various stages of their meals. A particularly shrill laugh elicited a wince, something not unnoticed by the girl as she arrived with the sloppy, greasy thing that masqueraded as a house specialty. Good thing he wasn't hungry.

  
"Sorry," she said, setting down the plastic plate with subtle nod, "About... Them."

  
A dismissive shrug as slender hands pushed the dishes away toward the center of the table. "Are you from here originally? Your accent, it's unusual for the area," he asked, studying her.

  
"Mm-mm, no. I actually moved here a few months ago; just sort wanted to see what it was like to live in the country,” came the simple reply.

  
 _Well-rehearsed._

  
"What's your name?" Baelish inquired, resting elbows on the table.

  
Motioning to the pinned label, she gently teased, “Alayne.”

  
A small shake of head followed a soft laugh, eyes darting to the placard. "How stupid of me, of course. I'm Petyr." Hand extended and accepted, the girl's brow furrowed briefly in an effort at placing the bearded face and graying temples. There was something familiar about him... But it's a common name and so many people come through here. Coincidence.

  
"Alayne - it's lovely. Rather unusual. Where did your mother come up with it? A _family_ name, perhaps?"  
  
The way he stressed that word - hinting that he knew something she didn't want him to – didn't bode well. "No, I don't think so; she just liked it, I guess," she answered, a growing uneasiness as time passed when a normal handshake should end.  _Maybe he wasn't as charming as he seemed; maybe he was socially awkward and didn't know when to let go?_ Alayne reasoned away her discomfort and, hoping to end the encounter amiably, half-laughed, "Sorry, I really should go check on my other tables."  
  
Anxiety trickled in as the second attempt to remove herself was met with a firmer grip. "Excuse me," she frowned, glancing from his face to their joined hands and back again.  
"You're quiet resourceful, my dear. Admirably so. But you're out of your league." Unoccupied digits of his other hand reached up to the tresses that spilled over shoulder and hung between them, fingering the ends. "Even if your name didn't, such a unique shade _surely_ came from your mother?"  
  
Blue eyes widened, pupils constricting to pinpricks, as color drained from youthful face. Chest rose and fell more quickly, adrenaline urging the heart to pump blood to muscles, for synapses to rapid fire, every cell in her body commanding her to run; escape; put as much distance between he and you as possible and as quickly as you can. "Who _are_ you? _Let go!_ " she demanded, voice raising with each sharp jerk of limb.  
  
Though affable grin remained, something in his eyes changed. They seemed increasingly gray, more reminiscent of a shark who smelled blood in the water. Tone morphed from friendly and unassuming to sardonic. " _Behave yourself_ ," he scolded, scanning the diner to ensure the incessant clucking of those hens drowned out the girl's protests. "I've known your family for a long time and, frankly, you should be thankful I found you first."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about and I really need to do my job," rushed words flew past lips as fingers worked to pry away the tightening vice until he hissed out two words:  
  
 _"Sansa. Stark."_

  
The girl froze, petrified. With digits still interlaced, blue eyes rose slowly to meet his. Hazy memories surfaced through the fog of panic, coming into sharp focus. "Mr. Baelish," she breathed. In place of comfort, the realization brought a new wave of dread. _Of course they would send him: employing a friendly face in hopes she wouldn't flee. How clever._  
  
All pretense gone, she fought against the mind-numbing terror threatening to take over. _Think!_   She could scream, claim he was a lascivious old man, which could only result in her being found out. After all, he need only utter her name. _But if he couldn't talk..._ Eyes darted wildly, searching for something – anything – to help, finally settling on the cutlery just in reach.  
  
Baelish chuckled, as if he could actively see her machinations. “I wouldn't, Sweetling; a dull knife just doesn't suite you. Besides, I'm the only friend you've got.”  
  
 _The only friend you've got..._ That makes one more than she'd woken up with – depending on who you believed.  
  
Mouth parted slightly, lip began to tremble. "Please," she whimpered weakly. "You're hurting me. Please..." Deceptively strong, knuckles whitened, drawing Sansa down, close enough to feel warm breath as he murmured in her ear; close enough to detect a faintness of mint over acrid coffee. "I've got a lot of friends in a lot of places, but make no mistake: the Lannisters are no friends of mine." Was this a double-cross? A triple-cross? Whose game was he playing?  
  
Then the girl was released, vice turning to subtle strokes of fingers on reddened flesh. Using her free hand as a brace against the booth, she rose slowly, face still inches from his, red hair creating a curtain to shield their power play. Bile crept up her throat, stomach turning. She knew it couldn't last forever, but at least hoped for this to go on a bit longer. _How had he found her so quickly? And if he knew, who else did?_ The result of refusing him was all too obvious - clearly not an option – but could she bet her life on his promises?  
  
"Why should I trust you?"

  
The man peered up at her, invoking the vision of a supplicant at the feet of a great goddess, uttering the the question both already knew the answer to: "What choice do you have?"


End file.
